


Pestilence

by anamia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (more gore than violence), Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Horror, Mercy Killing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamia/pseuds/anamia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Disease struck Paris without warning, turning those it afflicted into mindless monsters with a craving for human flesh. Those who could afford to fled, while those who could not stayed to fight and to die in the streets.</p>
<p>Enjolras and his friends stayed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pestilence

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to Pilferingapples, Pilgrim--soul, and Moonlitasphodel for reading this over for me. Further thanks go to Pilferingapples for talking to me about Enjolras' character and assuring me that I wasn't doing it horribly wrong. Any errors in either characterization or grammar are 100% my fault. Special note to sadpanties for letting me cry to her about this despite not even being in this fandom.
> 
> I offer preemptive apologies for the deeply dubious biology in this and also the lack of any proper action scenes. I do not apologize for any tears you may shed.

There was a sort of poetic justice in the fact that the Disease struck the guard first. Those men who had served their lives obeying commands from above without an iota of independent thought became mindless creatures in truth, shambling along the cobbled streets of Paris with no capacity for higher reason to speak of. They were few in number and easily dealt with. A few well-aimed bullets or pavestones did the trick, though Bahorel claimed to have encountered one who required full body wrestling and liberal use of a bayonet to subdue.

When the Disease spread to the city's poor it became far more serious. The desperate creatures of Paris' slums acquired single-minded purpose and it became not uncommon for an unsuspecting Bourgeois to find himself accosted by a horde of the afflicted, all clamoring for flesh. Everyone was advised to walk around armed, even the ladies. Those who could afford to leave began to do so, carrying the pestilence with them when they fled. Soon reports of the Disease trickled in from other cities, the pestilence brought there by the desperate migrants. Travel restrictions sprang up, ordering all save those with official passes and guarantees of health to stay put. Those who could not acquire these papers, whether though legitimate means or bribery, were barred from leaving, the Ministers of Health and Defense having decreed that the Disease should be contained as much as possible. Enjolras and his friends stayed in Paris, Enjolras declaring that so long as some were kept in Paris against their will so too he would remain. He gave his friends his blessing to save themselves while they could; none took the chance.

Doctors worked around the clock to find a cure, to contain symptoms, to provide an explanation for the Disease's sudden outbreak and virulent spread. Priests fasted and prayed until their knees were raw and their bodies dizzy from starvation. None of their efforts seemed to make any difference, and each day the number of Infected rose.

Combeferre and Joly were among those doctors struggling to apply science to the situation. They stumbled home each night to their respective rooms, exhausted and deeply frightened. Joly's hands trembled constantly, while Combeferre refused to leave Enjolras' side when he was home. Both of their faces were permanently lined with fear. The others did not fare much better. Even Prouvaire, drawn to the macabre as he was, could not erase from his mind's eye the vision of a young boy, clad in the ragged remains of what had once been an expensive garment, gnawing on a severed hand as blood dripped down his face and stained his shirt even further. The poet had vomited until he was kneeling dizzily on the pavement, stomach empty of everything it could expel.

Enjolras, once so steady and luminous, seemed lost. He rallied the others as best he could, speaking earnestly and powerfully of hope and of science and of justice, but he lacked a concrete enemy and his words seemed hollow. The others clung to them anyway, rallying behind him as they always had, desperate to retain a sense of normality and positivity in this city turned nightmare. Only Grantaire seemed unaffected by the horrors around him, though his caustic remarks seemed even more tinged with smug bitterness than before. None could find it in them to quiet him, not when he too represented a much-needed link to their former lives.

Bossuet was the first of their group to become afflicted. In the back of their minds they had all known that it would be nearly impossible for all of them to escape, not when they all refused to leave the city, even Grantaire despite his many words to the contrary. The Disease had spread to other parts of the country but it remained thickest in Paris. Staying was practically a death sentence. And yet they stayed, all of them, barricading themselves in the Musain with Musichetta and Bahorel’s mistress, a brash young woman named Dianne. Courfeyrac had tried to convince little Gavroche to join them, but the gamin had only laughed and declared that for the first time he was on top of the world and it would be a crime to waste it. They had not seen him since; none mentioned his name.

Bossuet took the news of his infection well, far better than Joly. The latter threw himself hysterically on his friend, babbling incoherently about cures and impossibility and miracles between his panicked tears. Bossuet, not far gone yet, wrapped a firm around Joly and let the panic run its course, saying little until Joly had recovered enough to breathe. Musichetta joined them and the three formed a unit, impenetrable from the outside. The others backed away to give them their space, faces white. Combeferre gripped at Enjolras so tightly it hurt them both, the only sign of how deeply affected he was by the situation. Enjolras had never looked so grave, not even when bearing witness to unspeakable injustice perpetrated on those who could least afford it. Courfeyrac stayed close to them both, hovering behind them, his every worry plain to read on his unnaturally pale face.

Joly returned with Combeferre at the hospital the next day, face set into the cast of one who cannot afford anything less than total composure lest he break entirely. He worked with a kind of single-minded desperation more common to the likes of Enjolras. Their fellow medical men had seen this before; they murmured comforting words as they passed him and exchanged pitying looks when they thought he was not watching. Combeferre fought back the urge to strike the looks from their faces, an urge he barely recognized within himself. He kept his head down and forced Joly to leave with him when the time came, ignoring the other's pleas and protests. When they arrived at the Musain Joly split from him and went directly to Bossuet, insisting that his friend undergo a thorough exam to check for encroaching symptoms. Combeferre left him to it and went to find Enjolras and Courfeyrac. The three did not talk much, sitting together at a table with legs and shoulders touching. Tension and fear filled the room just as it had every day since they moved in. Bahorel and Prouvaire were out, gone to purchase supplies while they still could and gather news. Courfeyrac had tried to talk them out of it, but to no avail. Now, with one of their number ill and two out in the streets, the only thing they could do was pray.

Enjolras had never been good at praying.

Combeferre, not much better, kept a grip on Enjolras' hand under the table, deeply relieved by each strong beat of Enjolras' heart that proved that he was still well.

Prouvaire and Bahorel returned hours later, splattered with blood and holding bulky sacks. Both looked exhausted. "The king is ill," Bahorel announced, letting his sack drop to the ground.

"They've been hiding it," Prouvaire added, also divesting himself of his burden. “Apparently one of the servants broke the official pact of secrecy and spread the word.” Feuilly moved forward to help unpack. When Musichetta made to leave her boys and do the same Feuilly waved her back and sent a significant look Grantaire's way. This last lurched to his feet and stumbled across the room to help.

"How long?" Combeferre asked, voice sounding slightly foreign to his own ears.

"Word has it about two weeks," Prouvaire said. Bahorel, currently submitting to an examination by Dianne, nodded.

“There will be anarchy in the streets,” Combeferre said grimly.

Grantaire snorted. “Looks like you’ll get to find out what happens if you put the people in charge after all.”

Every single other person in the room, Joly and Bossuet included, turned to glare at him. “If you have nothing of use to contribute then be silent,” Enjolras said tightly. Grantaire looked back down at the floor and, almost miraculously, said nothing more.

Combeferre cleared his throat, calling attention back to himself. “We must prepare for the worst,” he said. Enjolras nodded, visibly forcing himself to set aside Grantaire’s words and focus on the situation at hand. They could not afford to fall into chaos, not if they wanted their remaining time to be meaningful.

*

Bossuet succumbed to his Disease two days before the first of the riots. He saw it coming and locked himself away, ignoring Joly's tearful pleading. Musichetta held Joly tightly and he buried his face in her shoulder as Bossuet closed the door to the back room. There was a silence, then a gunshot, then all was once more quiet. It was Bahorel and Feuilly who finally dealt with the body, arranging it as well as they could. Nothing could hide the gaping hole that had once been Bossuet's left ear, nor could anything be done to disguise his rotting flesh, hallmark of the Disease that had killed him.

They burned the body on the street behind the Musain, Bahorel and Prouvaire keeping watch to ensure that they were not interrupted by wandering Infected. Enjolras spoke about Bossuet's bravery and his unflagging good character, and Musichetta and Joly lit the makeshift pyre together. Both were crying, and Joly could not bear to watch as the body burned to ash. The solemn silence was broken only by the crackle of flame and the bang of Bahorel's gun as he picked off an unwanted guest. When it had finished they all went back inside and bolted the door firmly. Grantaire passed around drinks. No one spoke.

The hospital, long since down to a skeleton crew of dedicated doctors, officially ceased operation the next day. Combeferre was told to leave while he still could and offered sanctuary by one of his fellow doctors, a man twice his age who had always looked at him with respect. Combeferre ducked his head and murmured his thanks but declined the offer. His colleague frowned but did not try to talk him out of it, merely offered his hopes that Combeferre would come to his senses soon. Combeferre shook the man's hand and took his leave, picking his way through deserted streets and letting himself into the Musain. He did not mention the conversation save to Enjolras, who looked at him with sorrow filled eyes and reminded him that he was free to leave whenever he chose. Combeferre squeezed his hand and did not reply. No more was said on the subject.

The fires began at midnight. Those among the group who could still sleep were woken by the sound of roaring flames and the screams of burning men and Infected. Enjolras rushed outside, heedless of the danger, calling for buckets. The others followed his lead, doing what they could to protect at least the Musain, wetting the walls and roof with what water they could still find. It was not enough, and it was in the end Grantaire who finally pulled Enjolras away from the lost cause and down into the wine cellar. In the dark they all huddled, pressed too close together for comfort as above them the inferno raged. For the next two days they stayed there, air growing fetid from lack of reliable renewal. Even as their eyes adjusted they could only barely make out the dimmest of shapes, just enough to count bodies. Their count came up short; Musichetta led the prayer for her lover's soul and Dianne found her hand in the darkness.

After the last of the fires had cleared their area they carefully poked their heads out, eyes burning from the smoke and the light. Only the shell of the cafe remained, teetering dangerously above them. The smoking bodies of the Infected littered the streets, and the air smelled of charred flesh and woodsmoke. Prouvaire was not alone in vomiting up a stomach-full of wine -- the only sustenance they had had in the cellar. Even Enjolras, usually so good at keeping up appearances even when troubled, was obviously distressed by the destruction around them. Paris, his beloved city, mistress of his heart, lay smoldering around him, left to burn by those sworn to protect her from all ills. In the distance a few fires still raged, having taken root in more fertile pastures.

Musichetta took control, dispatching Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Feuilly to find food where they could. Grantaire they left in the cellar where he had long since succumbed to a wine-induced stupor. Combeferre, Enjolras, and Prouvaire worked with the women to salvage what they could from the wreckage of the Musain, though there was precious little to find. Enjolras and Combeferre stayed close to each other, drawing strength and as much composure as possible from the contact. Even when Enjolras had recovered a shadow of his old steadiness he did not move away. His hands did not tremble but in his eyes anyone could read bone-deep pain and fear. None of the others were in much better condition.

It took only twenty minutes for the missing three to return. A remark about the speed of their errand died on Combeferre's lips and was replaced by a sinking feeling of horror as he took in how Bahorel and Feuilly were supporting Courfeyrac between them. This last was pale and sweating visibly, a half-rueful expression on his face. Combeferre hurried forward without quite realizing that he was moving, helping Bahorel and Feuilly sit Courfeyrac down. His mind felt very distant indeed as he examined his friend, going through the motions without consciously directing them.

“You should have told us,” he murmured, taking Courfeyrac’s pulse.

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Wouldn’t have done anyone any good,” he said. “It either is or it isn’t and worrying about it won’t change anything. Is it?”

Combeferre nodded mutely and Courfeyrac swallowed hard, clearly beating back a flush of instinctive terror. He tried to smile. “It’s been good.”

Combeferre realized that he still had Courfeyrac’s wrist and slid his grip down to clasp his friend’s hand. He barely noticed Enjolras coming up to join them or the others hovering a little ways away. Words failed him in the face of his friend’s situation and he could feel himself begin to cry.

Enjolras too reached out to touch Courfeyrac, resting his hand on the other’s chest as though he could banish the Disease from his blood by will alone. "Friend, there is still hope," he said, voice low and earnest. "You mustn't lose faith."

Courfeyrac let out a peal of laughter and looked fondly up at Enjolras. "Your capacity for faith will never fail to astound me," he said. "But even you must quit sometime."

"They may yet find a cure," Enjolras insisted. "The reason of man will prevail."

"Aye," Courfeyrac agreed. "In time. I have no doubt about the reason of man, but rather the resilience of Courfeyrac.” His lips twitched into a smile, which the other two could not return. He turned his gaze to Combeferre. "I would appreciate it if I could keep my good looks," he said.

Combeferre, understanding it for the request it was, swallowed and nodded. "We will see to it," he said, voice barely a whisper.

"I knew I could count on you," Courfeyrac said, squeezing his arm and letting his hand drop back down. "Enjolras, my friend, it has been an honor." He gave a mock salute and Enjolras shivered convulsively.

"I am humbled to have called you my friend," Enjolras whispered. He rocked back on his heels, entire body trembling slightly. "Combeferre, have you a pistol?"

Combeferre produced one and handed it over. He gripped Courfeyrac’s hand more tightly, bracing himself for the inevitable shock.

"Farewell," Enjolras said, and pulled the trigger.

*

They burned Courfeyrac's body as they had Bossuet's. No one commented on the tears running down Enjolras' face, or on the way he and Combeferre clung to each other as they watched the flames flicker out. They returned to the cellar that night rather than begin the search for a new shelter.

*

A lead of Feuilly's brought them to a forbidding stone building, facade blackened by filth and flame. Inside they found a hard-faced collection of survivors, all of whom turned deeply suspicious gazes on the newcomers.

"We're clean," Musichetta assured him. She had taken command of the group after Courfeyrac's death, leading them with a brittle calm that seemed like it should crack at any moment. It did not.

"We'll be the judge of that," one of the previous inhabitants declared, and the group soon found themselves stripped to the waist, even Musichetta and Dianne, and examined closely for signs of the Disease. None were found, and by nightfall they had been warily accepted into the building.

No one spoke much. The old inhabitants eyed the new additions with the double suspicion of those who had grown up mired in injustice and now lived in fear of infection. Their leader wore a tattered frock coat that had once been brightly patterned and a battered top hat, and his smile contained deadly venom that matched the ruthless glint in his eyes. The girl who shadowed him contented herself with a ragged dress whose original color was impossible to determine. She said little, hollow eyes fixed on the newcomers, but she laughed harshly when they gave their names, displaying a mouth filled with half-rotten teeth.

Combeferre insisted on going to the deserted hospital to sort through what was left. Enjolras accompanied him, a silent shadow who had once burned like the sun. They did not speak, pressed against each other even while they walked. The fires had mostly died down, all available fuel depleted by their ravenous appetite. The hospital had not been untouched but there were salvageable supplies. The two gathered as many as they could and began the difficult trek back to the building, Combeferre having to pause several times to shoot Infected who came too close. He felt bile rising in the back of his throat and swallowed it down with difficulty, ignoring the way it burned in his throat. They distributed the supplies to those who needed them and allowed Dianne to feed them their share of what Bahorel and Prouvaire had managed to find. It was not much, and it did little to quiet Combeferre's roiling stomach.

They returned to the hospital the next day and the next. Enjolras stayed close by Combeferre's side as the latter peered through microscopes and scribbled notes. It was futile, they both knew, but it was work or sit in the building and slowly go mad. On the third day Enjolras began making observations of his own, voice coming out a dull monotone as he listed things he saw for Combeferre to write down.

*

It took a week for Bahorel to come to blows with the leader of the other group. Enjolras and Combeferre arrived only for the aftermath, returning to the building to find a sluggishly bleeding Bahorel being simultaneously bandaged and scolded by Dianne as Musichetta and Feuilly kept him firmly away from the other man.

"What happened?" Enjolras asked as he and Combeferre crouched next to Bahorel.

Bahorel shrugged and turned to spit out a mouthful of blood. "Son of a whore started it," he said.

"And you saw no problems with finishing," Dianne said reprovingly.

Bahorel's answering grin was not contrite in the slightest, and it allowed Combeferre to diagnose the source of the blood as a missing tooth. “Course not,” he said.

"What did he do?" Combeferre asked.

"Tried to fuck 'Chetta," Bahorel said, all traces of mirth vanishing. "Said she was his by conquest. I sorted him out on that particular point."

Combeferre felt cold rage grow in him at those words, but Enjolras beat him to it. He rose, and for the first time in weeks looked comparable to his old self. Injustice with a cause was what he has been born to combat and he once more had a clear purpose, albeit a temporary one. Combeferre reached to stop him then changed his mind; Enjolras burning again filled a hole in Combeferre he had barely noticed before then and he was loath to smother his friend's rekindled flame so quickly. He got to work on Bahorel's injuries, half his attention on Enjolras.

"Citizen," Enjolras called, voice cracking through the building like a gunshot. "We are not animals. We are men of reason. Men of reason do not violate their fellow citizens. I will have your apology." His voice was hard as stone, expression filling those who saw it with trepidation despite the dark smudges of exhaustion and deeply etched lines of grief.

The leader sneered and struggled to his feet. He had been thoroughly pounded but managed a cocky look anyway, flanked by the silent girl with hungry eyes and a hulking giant of a man. "The laws of men are dead," he said. "All what's real now are the laws of nature." He leered at Musichetta, whose set expression did not change. "So if you want that apology, pretty boy, you're gonna have to take it by force."

"If I must," Enjolras said evenly. Combeferre rose and crossed to Enjolras' side. Prouvaire and Feuilly did the same, Prouvaire with clenched fists and a dark red blush of anger across his cheeks and Feuilly with the studied neutrality of one who has seen it all before. Even Grantaire, drunk as ever, strolled over to take his place behind Enjolras, expression grim.

The other leader sent a significant look behind him and, right on cue, two more men materialized to stand with him. The air was thick with tension, fear and fury pulsing through all the potential combatants and threatening to boil over at the slightest provocation.

Before things could come to blows a shout was heard from the streets. "Police!"

Instantly the other group's attention turned to the door and the leader barked a few orders. His people scattered, melting into the shadows from whence they had come, leaving only the leader and the girl.

"We'll settle this later looks like," the leader said. He spat, a large gob of blood-tinged saliva landing on the floor close to Enjolras' shoe. Then he and the girl too slipped away, leaving the building as though they had never been.

A bang sounded on the door and a voice bellowed, "All who are alive make yourselves known in the name of the law."

Enjolras and Combeferre exchanged glances. Then, with a confidence he certainly did not feel, Enjolras called back, "We are eight."

There was a pause, then a crash as the door was forced open. A squadron of men in uniform filed in, boots dusty and truncheons clearly well-used. Their commander stepped forward and Enjolras mimicked him, Combeferre close behind.

"Identify yourselves," the squadron leader ordered.

"We are citizens all," Enjolras returned. "And free of the Disease."

The commander sneered at the word citizen. "We'll be the judge of that," he said. "What of that one?" He pointed with his truncheon towards Bahorel, who gave as cocky a grin as he could manage and struggled to his feet, Musichetta and Dianne supporting him.

"Got into a fight," he said. "Other bastard looks worse."

"There will be none of that," the commander said. "You are all placed under the care of the National Guard. Should we find you clear of the Disease you will be provided with provisions and escorted out of the city."

Indecision played out on Enjolras' features, but in the end he bowed his head. "We will not make trouble," he said.

The commander nodded. "Move out," he snapped to his men, who turned and did just that. "If your friend can't walk he stays," the commander informed Enjolras. "We can't handle invalids."

Bahorel started to speak but Dianne stopped him. "He can walk," Enjolras said evenly.

"Then let's go."

*

Bahorel could walk, though he was supported by both Prouvaire and Dianne. The police squadron set a fast pace through the corpse-littered streets and it took only a few minutes to arrive at the precinct. There each member of the group was inspected roughly but thoroughly for signs of the Disease. They all came up healthy, though the police surgeon ordered a watch placed on Feuilly after discovering a sluggishly-bleeding scratch on one of his arms and all of them were placed under an obligatory 24 hour quarantine. Combeferre was given leave to use police supplies to properly bandage and disinfect Bahorel's wounds. They were fed and given wine, a better meal than they had managed in weeks. The squadron commander, after hearing Combeferre and Prouvaire's names, was markedly warmer; Enjolras he still treated with the bone deep suspicion accorded to suspected revolutionaries. No one had forgotten Enjolras' pointed use of the term 'citizen.'

Paris, they learned from the men, had been declared a cesspool of pestilence, officially abandoned to its fate. They had been found on one of the last scheduled patrols before the city would be sealed off forever and left to rot. The king had succumbed and been replaced by his Minister of Defense. The rest of France had fared only slightly better than Paris, with no corner being spared completely from the outbreak. Some small villages were nothing but graveyards, while even the biggest cities of the provinces had had their populations cut by nearly a third. Those who could afford to had fled to England until the English Navy had begun barring entrance out of self-preservation. A cure had yet to be found, and there were few hints as to the Disease's origins.

Combeferre's request to visit the hospital was denied, but he was allowed access to the precinct's supplies, meager as they were. The police surgeon knew one of Combeferre's former teachers, though they had not been in contact since the outbreak, and he accorded Combeferre nearly the same respect he would a fully trained doctor. The two did not speak much, both working in silence. Enjolras continued to help Combeferre as best he could while the others stayed with the men.

After emerging from quarantine Enjolras had requested permission to remain until Bahorel's injuries were healed, and the squadron leader had agreed to his terms. Combeferre and the police surgeon had not yet cleared Bahorel for travel when Feuilly approached Combeferre, face grim. They were alone, the others having retired for the night. Even Enjolras had fallen asleep, back pressed against Combeferre. Without a word Feuilly rolled up his sleeve to display his injury.

The skin around the scratch had begun to fester and rot.

For a long moment Combeferre looked at it without speaking. He knew better than to suggest something like amputation; the Disease would have traveled through Feuilly's entire body at this point and removing the affected limb would be futile. Feuilly knew this too, Combeferre could tell. His face was pale with fear even as his expression stayed determined. Combeferre reached out and pressed his good hand.

"What would you have me tell the others?" Combeferre asked, keeping his voice low to avoid waking Enjolras.

Feuilly swallowed hard. "The truth." His voice came out in the ghost of a whisper, barely audible. A thought occurred to him and he added, "Unless it would put you in danger. I would rather brave this alone than make you suffer because of me."

Combeferre squeezed his hand more tightly. "We will not abandon you," he assured Feuilly. "No matter what happens."

Feuilly swallowed again and for a moment Combeferre thought he would try to argue. He stayed silent though, and rolled his sleeve back down to hide the offending scratch. Behind Combeferre Enjolras stirred in his sleep, pressing closer to his friend. Combeferre motioned Feuilly to a seat. Gingerly, the younger man sat, settling himself a little ways away from Enjolras and Combeferre. Combeferre beckoned him closer and, after a moment's hesitation, Feuilly obliged. Combeferre laced his fingers through Feuilly's and gave him as reassuring a smile as possible. Neither of the two made it back to sleep that night, though morning found Feuilly with his head in Combeferre's lap, fingers still firmly intertwined with his friend's.

*

"We cannot let you stay." The squadron leader stood as far away from the group as he could while still being in the same room, fear undercutting the fierceness of his words. "Nor can we allow you to leave the city walls, Infected as you are."

Combeferre wanted to argue the point, to remind them that Feuilly was not yet properly Infected, but he held his tongue. It would do no good. The police would do with them as they wished and the only thing to be gained by speaking up was a truncheon to the head. Enjolras stood tall beside him, golden curls once more radiant, chin raised defiantly.

“Just kill them now. Get it over with!” One of the policemen spoke up, preventing Enjolras from attempting to argue their case. In an instant the air in the precinct became practically electric; the wary expressions of the men turned calculating, almost eager, while Enjolras and his friends stiffened like prey caught in a trap. Combeferre’s eyes darted from one officer to the next, reading in their faces a primeval desire to take advantage of the collapsed order and indulge their basest instincts. His hand closed around the pistol at his side, knowing that he had no chance of taking them all with him but unwilling to go down without a fight.

“Enough,” the squadron commander barked, and the tension diffused ever so slightly. “No one’s killing anyone.” He twisted to glower at his men, who shuffled back into place with more than one glare in the direction of the former students. The squadron leader turned his glower on these last and added, “Get on with you. We can’t be having you around here, not when you’re carriers.”

Prouvaire, standing next to Bahorel, scowled, his lithe body practically vibrating from the injustice of their eviction. He held his tongue, though it was clearly only with considerable effort. Feuilly, a little ways away, stood looking at the ground, utterly downcast and compliant. It was Combeferre rather than Enjolras who nodded.

“We will be on our way,” he said. “You have our thanks for your hospitality.” He turned and the others followed suit, stepping out of the police precinct into the hazy morning air.

They found their way back at the hospital, now stripped of all its supplies and nearly all the furniture that wasn’t nailed down but still standing. Combeferre found a battered mattress stashed in one of the closets and with the help of the women turned it into a makeshift bed. He made Feuilly lie down, ignoring the other’s protests that he should be in a secluded room. It wasn’t clear yet how exactly the Disease was transmitted, and Combeferre refused to isolate Feuilly until it became absolutely necessary.

None of them liked the idea of sending people out, but they had neither water nor food and would soon be in great need of both. Musichetta accompanied Prouvaire and Combeferre on the requisition trip. Enjolras watched his friends go with apprehension, eyes lingering on Combeferre’s retreating figure in particular. Then he shook himself and turned abruptly away from the door; waiting in watch would do them no good and his time would be better spent occupying his mind in other ways.

Grantaire and Dianne had sat Bahorel down and were talking with him, passing around a bottle Grantaire had managed to steal from the police. Enjolras did not have it in him to reprimand Grantaire for his thievery. Instead he crossed to where Feuilly lay and lowered himself to a seat, taking Feuilly’s hand in his. Feuilly was not so far gone yet that he did not notice the world around him and he gave Enjolras a weak smile.

“We will find a way,” Enjolras murmured to him, brushing a strand of damp hair off the other’s forehead. “You need only be brave a little while longer.”

Feuilly shivered slightly, squeezing Enjolras’ hand more tightly. “I will try,” he said.

“If there is any who can beat this I have faith that it will be you,” Enjolras said. He leaned in and kissed Feuilly’s forehead. “You should rest or Combeferre will have both our heads.”

Feuilly smiled again and let his eyes drift close. Enjolras did not move from his place next to Feuilly’s makeshift bed, still holding his friend’s hand. A little ways away Bahorel laughed and the sound quickly turned into a cough.

*

Combeferre woke in the middle of the night to someone touching his arm. It took a second or two for him to rouse fully from his slumber and take stock of his surroundings. The light was too dim to make out the identity of the figure beside him.

“Enjolras?” he mumbled, taking a guess at who might be inclined to wake him at this time and in such a manner.

His friend didn’t answer, but Combeferre felt the light pain of fingernails digging into his skin. He sat up, pulling his arm away, tensed for bad news. It could only be bad news, at this hour. “What’s wrong?” he asked, pitching his voice low to avoid waking the others.

The other still said nothing. Combeferre squinted, willing his eyes to adjust more quickly to the darkness. A moment later the hand reached out again, this time aiming for Combeferre’s throat. The latter’s eyes widened and he scrambled back, suddenly grateful that they had no place to sleep save the floor. The scent of fetid flesh reached his nostrils as the figure moved again and Combeferre’s heart sank. Definitely not Enjolras.

Feuilly, or the Infected who had formerly been Feuilly, lunged for Combeferre and lost his balance, falling to the floor with a muted thump. Combeferre took advantage of this momentary distraction to fall back further, casting his eyes around for a weapon. Enjolras had his pistol, having broken his own, and Combeferre had meant to replenish his arsenal in the morning. A pistol in the morning, however, would do him no good now.

Feuilly clambered to his feet and resumed his pursuit, advancing on Combeferre with the unfortunate rapidity of those recently turned. Combeferre picked up his own pace, forging backwards blindly. He soon hit the wall and tensed himself for a proper fight, raising fists far more used to healing injuries than to inflicting them.

A gunshot went off before Combeferre could take the first swing, and Feuilly’s body crumpled to the floor as he gave out a roar of pain. He tried to struggle to his feet but could not, the bullet having shattered his spine. Combeferre looked up to find Enjolras in the doorway, Combeferre’s still smoking pistol in hand. He hurried over and went directly to Combeferre’s side, face thrown so deeply into shadows that Combeferre could not read his expression.

“Are you all right?” he asked, voice filled with worry and an undercurrent of desperation. “Did he…”

“I am unhurt,” Combeferre assured him. “You were just in time.”

They both looked down at where Feuilly lay, twitching feebly, blood dripping from his wound. Enjolras dropped to his knees and Combeferre followed a moment later, still shaken from his near brush with disaster but willing himself to be strong for Enjolras’ sake. Feuilly’s eyes were still open, though Combeferre doubted that he recognized either of them. Enjolras gathered up his broken body and cradled his head, stroking his hair back away from his eyes.

“I am so very sorry,” he said, voice breaking. “Please forgive me, though I do not deserve it.”

Combeferre put a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, feeling his friend shake beneath his grip. Blood seeped into their clothes but neither took note.

“You did what you had to,” Combeferre said. “He would be the first to understand and grant you forgiveness.”

Enjolras’ only response was a half-strangled sob. In his lap Feuilly had stopped twitching.

“I… we are lost here Combeferre,” Enjolras said, his voice thick. “I don’t know what to do.”

Combeferre wrapped his arms around his friend’s shoulders, allowing the contact to steady him as well as Enjolras. “We persevere,” he said. “The spirit of man is strong against adversity. If we emerge from this alive we will rebuild France in the names of those we have lost. If we don’t, our fight here will be testament to the strength of man’s ability to maintain the bonds of brotherhood in the worst of circumstances.”

Enjolras did not reply, slumped into Combeferre as though he could not stay erect under his own power, and reached out a trembling hand to close Feuilly’s eyes.

*

Bahorel lacked the strength to attend the burning of Feuilly’s body. Something inside of him had ruptured, either as a result of the original fight or the subsequent forced walk. He did not complain despite his obvious pain, and when Combeferre grimly confided that his prospects were low he gave a good imitation of his former grin.

“Well I can’t say I’ve lived a dull life,” he rasped, and then coughed wetly.

“No you can’t,” Combeferre agreed. “Try not to talk.” He clasped Bahorel’s shoulder then rose, ceding his place to Prouvaire who immediately began to speak in a low voice, reciting a classical tale – complete with several of his own additions – to distract his friend.

*

“They’ve closed the gates.”

It was Musichetta who spoke, voice more resigned than anything. Grantaire and Prouvaire, her partners in that day’s scouting party, nodded.

“You are certain?” Combeferre asked with a worried frown.

“We went to see,” Prouvaire said. “Barred solid. The only way out is to climb the walls.”

“Which puts you in the abandoned outskirts without shelter,” Grantaire added. He crossed the room to lounge against one of the walls and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Like all of them his clothes were worn through in several places and stained with mud and bodily fluids. “Basically, we’re completely fucked.”

Enjolras sent him a disapproving look. “We must not lose hope,” he said. “Without hope we have nothing.”

Grantaire laughed, a loud sound utterly devoid of mirth. “Listen to yourself,” he spat. “There already is nothing. This city is dead. This _country_ is dead, and so are its people. You’re deluded if you think otherwise.”

Enjolras turned to face him completely, his face terrible. He seemed truly carved from stone, an avenging statue come to life and about to cast judgment. “If that is how you feel then we have no place for you here,” he said icily. “Take your cynicism and your drunkenness elsewhere.”

For a long moment nothing in the room moved. Enjolras held Grantaire’s gaze, cold blue eyes showing neither mercy nor pity. Grantaire was trembling, though with what it was impossible to tell. Finally he jerked back upright and, without a word, exited the building. The door closed behind him with a dull thud and once again all was silent.

*

Paris burned again that night.

*

“We might try the old barracks,” Enjolras said, frowning. “It could be that they left munitions behind.”

“The problem would be opening the storerooms,” Combeferre said. “They do tend to be rather sturdily locked.”

“Still, I agree that it is our best option at this point,” Musichetta said, brow wrinkled with thought. “If we have trouble then it stands to reason that Infected would as well.”

Enjolras nodded. Combeferre ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I will not deny that we are in desperate need of ammunition,” he said. “And more guns could only be a good thing. You are right in saying that this may be the best option we have.”

“I can pick locks,” Musichetta said, and gave the ghost of a smile when both men turned startled eyes towards her. “Bossuet was prone to losing his keys.”

All three looked down for a moment at the mention of their fallen friend, then Enjolras nodded. “You will come with us?”

“Of course,” Musichetta said. “Even discounting the issue of locks, we will need as many hands as possible if we find what we need.”

“Indeed we will,” Combeferre agreed, and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “We should leave early in the morning.”

The other two nodded. Enjolras started to say something but they were interrupted by a panicked shout from Prouvaire. Immediately they all turned to see the young man sitting at Bahorel’s side, stiff as a board. Enjolras and Combeferre exchanged glances, both knowing in an instant what had occurred, and all three hurried across the room.

Prouvaire turned a stricken face towards Combeferre, unable to make himself speak. At his side Bahorel lay motionless. Combeferre reached out and felt for his pulse, already knowing what he would find. After a moment he gently laid Bahorel’s hand back down and shook his head.

Prouvaire let out a wail and all but collapsed onto his friend’s corpse, while Dianne too began to cry, her grief less dramatic but no less heartfelt. Musichetta went to embrace her while Enjolras carefully pried Prouvaire off of Bahorel and allowed the other to cling to him instead. Combeferre closed Bahorel’s eyes, noting as he did so that the other had died smiling. It seemed fitting.

Enjolras looked over Prouvaire’s head and asked quietly, “Have we time tonight?”

Combeferre hesitated, then nodded. “Even if we did not it would be better to do it now than have to go the night without a proper ceremony,” he answered. Enjolras moved to dislodge Prouvaire, but Combeferre shook his head. “I will make the preparations,” he said. Enjolras nodded and settled back into place, hesitantly putting his own arms around the crying poet.

It took longer than Combeferre would have liked to find enough fuel to build a pyre. There was precious little save stone left in the city; fires and scavengers had cleaned it to the bone. The heap of rags seemed painfully inadequate for the task but it was he could find. He hoped it would be enough.

Musichetta helped him transport the body onto the makeshift pyre and produced the last of her matches. The other three joined them, Enjolras still supporting Prouvaire, and Musichetta set the rags alight. It seemed to take a long time for a proper blaze to take hold, and for a heart-stopping moment Combeferre feared they wouldn’t manage, but at last the flames grew larger and began to consume the offered cloth and flesh. Musichetta stepped back to stand with Dianne while Combeferre joined Enjolras and Prouvaire. None of them spoke as Bahorel’s body was charred and turned to ash, leaving only his teeth and bones as testament to his existence. Infected, drawn by the light of the fire, staggered towards the group, picked off by Combeferre and Musichetta when they got too close

Night had fallen properly when they finally went back inside, still silent. Prouvaire, worn out from the intensity of his grief and long vigil, curled in on himself and fell into a fitful slumber. Musichetta covered him with the least worn of their blankets and sat down beside him, one hand on his shoulder. Dianne joined them, her face very pale and eyes glimmering with tears.

“We need to get out,” Combeferre said quietly, looking from the small group to Enjolras.

Enjolras frowned. “What do you mean?”

“We need to leave the city,” Combeferre said. “Soon, before it takes another of us.”

“No.”

Combeferre sighed, bracing himself for his friend’s stubbornness. “Enjolras, there is no one left here to stay for. The only ones left besides us have chosen their fate freely, as we did. There are places we could go, people who would give us sanctuary.”

“I am not leaving Paris,” Enjolras repeated, voice firm despite its low volume. “I will not dishonor those who died here by running away.”

“Abandoning a sinking ship is hardly dishonoring it,” Combeferre returned.

“And the people who have no choice but to stay even as it sinks to the bottom?” Enjolras wanted to know. “Would you have us abandon them as well?”

Combeferre flinched but pressed on, determined to make his friend see his point. “Their deaths are a tragedy, yes…”

“Their deaths came about due to the deliberate neglect of those in power,” Enjolras interrupted.

“Placing a city under quarantine is the only way to contain an epidemic,” Combeferre said. “I agree, it is monstrous, but you yourself have said that sometimes we must do terrible things for the sake of something greater.”

“Was it necessary to forsake Paris entirely?” Enjolras wanted to know, voice and eyes hard as steel. “To leave its streets and its people to rot and to burn and to kill one another without intervention? Was it necessary to allow the wealthy to escape but keep the poor trapped behind the city walls to die alone and uncared for?”

“Of course not!” Combeferre said. “But our staying here with them will not change what has occurred. If we die here it will be for nothing.”

“You said yourself, our deaths serve as testament to the strength of mankind,” Enjolras pointed out. “Why have you renounced your own words?”

“I haven’t,” Combeferre assured him wearily. “But there are other ways to honor that strength. Enjolras, I am tired of watching my friends die, of watching _our_ friends die, and being unable to stop it.”

Enjolras softened slightly, but his resolve did not waver. “You are always free to leave whenever you wish to,” he said. “As are the others. None of you are bound by my decisions, nor have you ever been.”

“You’re my friend too,” Combeferre said, weariness and heartache making his tone sharper than usual. “And we will follow your lead whether you wish it or not. _Prouvaire_ will follow your lead.”

“I will speak to him,” Enjolras said after a moment.

Combeferre shook his head, trying to tamp down growing irritation. Dimly he knew that this was a product of emotional and physical exhaustion and that under any other circumstances he would never feel this way, but it did not help in the immediate moment. “And what good will that do?” he asked. “Even if you could convince him to go that would not save you. There is no _purpose_ in staying any longer, no statement to make, no cause to uphold.”

Enjolras stared at him, a dozen emotions playing across his face before being locked away behind an unreadable mask. “I will not abandon the people of Paris,” he said tightly. “I thought you of all people would understand that.”

“You will throw your life away,” Combeferre said, though he flinched back a little.

“I have always been willing to sacrifice my life.”

“But for _what_?” Combeferre demanded, feeling the urge to cry growing in his throat, though whether they were tears of sorrow or frustration he could not say. “What possible gain is there in staying here to die?”

“Paris is my home,” Enjolras said.

“You will die for love of a city? It is that important to you?”

“I will die for the people,” Enjolras said. “They have always been what matter most.”

“We are people too,” Combeferre said, voice tinged with desperation. “Will you not live for us as you would die for them?”

Mutely, Enjolras shook his head and did not meet Combeferre’s eyes.

It should not have surprised Combeferre, did not surprise Combeferre, not really, but he still felt as though all the breath had been knocked from his body. “I see,” he said stiffly. A thousand small disagreements flared up in his memory, a thousand discussions about the relative value of individuals and the collective, a thousand terrible deeds excused as necessary for the greater cause. “I am glad that you have clarified your priorities.” He turned and made to walk away.

“Combeferre,” Enjolras began, but Combeferre shook his head.

“Do as you must,” he said. “And I will do the same.” He crossed to where Prouvaire and the women lay and Enjolras let him go.

*

Tension hung thick between Enjolras and Combeferre as they set off the next morning for the now abandoned barracks. Musichetta, walking between them, stayed silent but could not keep the worry and confusion from her face. They walked rapidly, all three alert for any Infected who might notice their presence. There were fewer Infected now than there had been, their numbers dwindling as they ran low on food and encountered the bullets and knives of those who still lived. Any healthy people in Paris by this point could certainly put up a good fight, and the Infected did not possess enough higher thought to organize into groups and bring down their prey more efficiently. Still, they far outnumbered the healthy and by the time the three reached the barracks all three had shot at least one.

The barracks themselves had been as thoroughly ransacked as the rest of the city, all portable supplies long gone and most of the furniture smashed to pieces. Enjolras led the way through the building, trying all the doors and finding nothing but more rubble. Several had obviously been forced open, suggesting at least one organized trip before theirs if not several. Within a few minutes it became readily apparent to all of them that they would not find anything here. Still, they methodically checked each room just in case, turning over broken pieces of furniture and poking through forcibly opened cupboards.

At last they were forced to admit defeat. All three wracked their brains in an attempt to think of another potentially untapped munitions store. Finally, Musichetta offered, “I suppose we could always try the Bastille.”

“No doubt it was cleaned out when the garrison left,” Combeferre said, not looking at Enjolras. “But I suppose it would not hurt to look. We have time still.”

Enjolras nodded and did not speak. Again, Musichetta shot both of them a concerned look but did not comment. She had spent too long running a café to get involved in the disputes of others. “No sense in lingering here then,” she said instead, and started in the direction of the long abandoned prison. The other two followed here.

The Bastille, as Combeferre had predicted, proved to be as empty of useable material as the barracks, though Musichetta did get to show off her lock picking skills. At any other time both Combeferre and Enjolras would be have been simultaneously infuriated by the prison’s past use and what it symbolized and enthralled by the history contained within its walls, but they did not linger. The sun inched further across the sky, reminding them that they worked under a deadline.

“I knew of a printshop that doubled as an armory,” Enjolras suggested.

“It burned in the first fire,” Combeferre answered shortly. “And the gunpowder stored there blew up the neighboring buildings in the process.”

“There is nothing left?”

“Merely a blackened hole in the ground.”

“We should return to the hospital,” Musichetta said. “If we think of more places to try we can come out again tomorrow, but it’s getting late and we have a long way to go.” The other two nodded and they started back towards the hospital, moving as quickly and silently as possible.

The hoard of Infected found them not five blocks from their destination.

Later none of them could have said how it was that they were all three taken unawares, but one moment they walked in single file along the empty street and the next a veritable mass of Infected surrounded them, rotten flesh filling the air with putrid stench and inhuman moans emerging from blood-stained mouths. Instinctively, Combeferre, Enjolras, and Musichetta backed up against each other to form a triangle, guns out as though they stood even a chance against so many. Enjolras shot first, bullet hitting one of the Infected in the hip and sending it falling to the ground. Its fellows did not even notice, trampling it as they surged forward. Again Enjolras shot and yet again, emptying all his cartridges into the bodies of the Infected and doing his best not to flinch at their agonized screams. Combeferre and Musichetta did the same, Musichetta drawing a knife when she ran out of bullets and Combeferre switching to bayonet. The Infected pressed closer and closer, reaching out with half-decayed fingers to claw at the three.

Enjolras lashed out with his own bayonet, catching one in the stomach and piercing another through the shoulder. Both fell, only to be replaced by more. Beside him Musichetta sent her knife through the throat of an Infected with a sharp twist of her wrist and bent to retrieve the weapon, knifing another in the groin as she straightened. It fell hard and she smirked in grim satisfaction.  Combeferre too aimed for the gut, bringing down three in a row with a ferocity that did not suit him.

It was not enough. It seemed as though every Infected in the city had converged upon them and they were tiring fast. One Infected tore at Enjolras’ arm, ripping through his sleeve and nearly gouging out a chunk of flesh before falling to a vicious thrust of Combeferre’s bayonet. Enjolras returned the favor a moment later, and the two still did not look each other in the eye.

A gunshot rang out suddenly, the noise distracting both the Infected and their prey. Enjolras thought at first that Prouvaire had come to their aid and felt a sinking in his stomach, but a moment later he caught sight of a mop of black curls that did not belong to Prouvaire at all. Grantaire advanced on the Infected, a gun in each hand and an unreadable expression on his face. He shot another and then a third, advancing steadily towards the throng.

“Go!” he shouted, pitching his voice above the screaming. “I’ll distract them.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras began, and Grantaire flinched at the sound of his name. An Infected drew close to him and he kicked it solidly in the chest, sending it staggering backwards to be trampled by its fellows.

“Go!” Grantaire repeated, this time a little desperately. “I can’t distract them forever.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Enjolras said.

An odd half smile flickered across Grantaire’s features even as he emptied the last of his bullets into the hoard. “Yes I do,” he countered. “Isn’t that the whole point of having ideals?”

Musichetta grabbed Enjolras’ arm and pulled him back, away from an Infected that had snuck up while he was distracted by the drunkard.

“ _Go_!” Grantaire yelled a third time, and Enjolras went, Combeferre and Musichetta close on his heels. He turned back only once, just in time to see the entire mob converge on Grantaire, who had fallen silent.

*

“Tomorrow we will leave Paris.”

Enjolras’ words sent a ripple of shock through the other four, all of whom turned to stare at him. The young man’s face was very pale, but filled with resolve.

“Why now?” Combeferre asked, frowning a little.

“You were right,” Enjolras told him. “Our remaining here does nothing for the people of Paris.”

“How can we get out?” Prouvaire demanded. He too was pale, his eyes still red from crying.

“The Infected are less active in the early morning,” Enjolras said. “And there are places where one can scale the walls with relative ease.”

“Where will we go?” Musichetta wanted to know. She too was frowning, though more speculatively than Combeferre.

“Where we can,” Enjolras said. “The Disease has taken the lives of many; there will be those who will give us food and shelter if we offer work.”

“You really mean for us to leave then? All of us?”

Enjolras did not quite meet Combeferre’s suspicious gaze. “We should make our preparations,” he said, which was not an answer to the question at all.

Musichetta looked from Enjolras to Combeferre and back again then nodded. “Right,” she said. “That shouldn’t take long.” She gestured for Prouvaire and Dianne to help her gather their scant possessions. Combeferre took advantage of the offered distraction to pull Enjolras into the next room, closing the door behind him. Once ensured of their privacy he turned to look his friend squarely in the face.

“You don’t intend to come with us at all, do you?” he challenged.

Enjolras started to reply then closed his mouth. He slumped a little and shook his head.

“Why not?” Combeferre asked. “Is it Paris again? And why then did you feel the need to lie to the others? This was not what I meant and you know that as well as I do.”

Enjolras winced. “It is… not entirely about Paris,” he said, once more not looking Combeferre in the eye. He took a deep breath, rallying himself, and added, “Though I maintain that your reasoning is less sound than usual in this case.”

“What else is it?” Combeferre asked, ignoring the slight against his logic for the moment.

“Please,” Enjolras said. “Combeferre…”

Combeferre shook his head. “I think I at least deserve an explanation,” he said. “Surely I matter enough for that.”

Enjolras flinched violently at that. “I did not mean that,” he said, voice practically inaudible. He looked so purely miserable that Combeferre felt tempted to retract his demand, but he stood firm, certain there was something more and needing to know for the sake of his own sanity.

Slowly, head bent so that his hair obscured his face, Enjolras reached down and pulled his shirt up a little, displaying a jagged welt in his side. It was not bleeding, but the edges were an angry red and the missing layer of skin seemed to have been clawed away. Combeferre felt his insides turn to ice. He did not have to ask what had caused the injury.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he breathed.

“I did not want to burden you,” Enjolras admitted. “You have made it clear how much you despise being unable to help those afflicted with this Disease, and I have caused you enough pain already in the past days.”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre managed through a painfully constricting throat. “You are never a burden to me. And I should never have become upset with you.” Their disagreement seemed impossibly small in the face of this new development, and shame welled up inside of him at the memory of his most recent conduct.

“It was your right,” Enjolras said. He seemed to realize that the injury was still on display and tugged his shirt down with a sharp movement. “I should never have said what I did.” He looked up, eyes meeting Combeferre’s at last. “Will you forgive me, my friend?”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Combeferre assured him, voice less steady than he would have liked. Then, “I will stay here with you.”

“No,” Enjolras said. “No, you should go with the others while you still can. They will need you.”

“Musichetta is more than capable of looking after them and Prouvaire is more solid than he looks,” Combeferre said. “And you will need me as well. Do not make me debate the point Enjolras, please.”

“You are certain of your choice?” Enjolras wanted to know, voice breaking slightly.

Combeferre nodded. He closed the distance between them with a single step and opened his arms to his friend. Enjolras practically fell into them, leaning nearly all his weight on Combeferre and embracing him with a kind of desperation. Combeferre returned the embrace with equal strength, and for several long moments they stayed in that position, both weeping freely.

Finally, without raising his head from where it was buried in Combeferre’s shoulder, Enjolras said, “Thank you. I… it is selfish of me but I will be grateful for your presence.”

“I would not leave you here to go through this ordeal alone,” Combeferre said. “I am only sorry that our quarrel made you unwilling to ask.”

“Will you tell the others?” Enjolras asked.

“If you permit me to,” Combeferre said.

Enjolras raised his head just enough to meet Combeferre’s eyes, his own still bright with falling tears. “You know I trust your judgment,” he said.

Combeferre swallowed hard and nodded. “And I yours,” he agreed. “I will speak to them.” Enjolras made to pull away and Combeferre tightened his grip. “Later,” he said. Enjolras relaxed back into his arms, once more resting his head on Combeferre’s shoulder. The former medical student guided them to a seat against one of the walls and there they sat, holding each other and saying nothing.

*

Combeferre and Enjolras accompanied the other three as far as the walls of Paris the next morning. Combeferre had pulled Musichetta aside to explain the situation and she had given him a look of pure understanding and compassion before agreeing not to tell the others until after it was too late to return. Impulsively Combeferre gave her a hug, which she returned after a second’s surprised hesitation.

They sent Prouvaire over the wall first, watching as he nimbly scaled the rough stones and clambered over the top. He gave a shout when he reached the bottom and Dianne took her turn, climbing less adroitly but without too much difficulty. She too disappeared over the top and a few minutes later confirmed her safe descent. Musichetta reached out and clasped first Enjolras’ shoulder and then Combeferre’s. Then, eyes dry and head held high, she reached for the first of the stones and hoisted herself up awkwardly over the wall and out of the city. She called out when she reached the other side as the others had done.

Enjolras took a deep breath and looked over at Combeferre, silently giving him one last chance to escape. Combeferre took his hand instead. Overhead clouds converged on the city, menacing swathes of grey that threatened an oncoming deluge. Together the two made their way back to the hospital. Miraculously, they did not meet a single Infected on the trek. Once back inside they bolted the door and looked at each other in silence. Outside the skies opened and the rain fell to earth in a seemingly unbroken sheet of water, putting out the last of the still smoldering fires.

*

“Here.” Combeferre squatted next to Enjolras and offered him a piece of bread. Several bluish patches of mold grew in interesting patterns over its surface, but neither Enjolras nor Combeferre took note of them. Long gone were the days when they could afford to be picky about the food they ate.

“Have you eaten?” Enjolras’ voice was weak, testament to the Disease doing its best to steal his humanity from him entirely, but he looked at Combeferre with eyes blue and piercing as ever.

“No,” Combeferre said. Lying to Enjolras was an exercise in futility; his friend knew Combeferre as well as Combeferre knew himself and could see through him with ease.

Predictably Enjolras moved to break the bread in half and Combeferre shook his head. “Don’t,” he said. “I will make do.”

“Combeferre,” Enjolras said warningly, but Combeferre shook his head a second time.

“As your doctor I refuse you permission to share,” he said. “You need all the strength you can manage.”

Enjolras sighed but did not attempt to argue further. Instead he began to consume the thoroughly unappetizing bread as Combeferre did his best not to be overly concerned by his easy acquiescence. A few minutes later Enjolras’ eyes drifted closed and he fell into fitful sleep, the partially-finished piece of bread threatening to fall from his limp hands. Combeferre rescued it and set it carefully aside. He did not attempt to look at Enjolras’ wound, knowing already what he would find. The skin around the injury had begun to rot, putrefying and threatening to fall away entirely. The very memory turned Combeferre’s stomach slightly and he swallowed hard, looking at Enjolras’ face as a distraction. Gently he reached out and smoothed Enjolras’ hair away from his face, feeling clammy skin under his fingertips. Despite that he bent over and dropped a gentle kiss on his friend’s forehead. Enjolras shifted slightly in his sleep and Combeferre rocked back on his heels, letting his hand fall back to his side. Their time was limited. They both knew that it numbered in single days now, though neither made mention of the deadline aloud. Combeferre brushed a hand against the bayonet beside him, wondering again if he would have the strength when the time came. Enjolras had faith in him, Combeferre knew, but for once he doubted whether Enjolras’ faith would be enough.

He rose and began to pace, keeping well away from doors and windows just in case.  There had been far fewer Infected in recent days, but there was no sense taking unnecessary risks. He desperately wished for something to take his mind off the current situation, but he had nothing at hand and his mind was currently unable to supply its own distractions. He longed for a book, any book, even one of those dreadful novels Courfeyrac had liked to read purely for the sake of offending Combeferre’s intellectual standards. He shook his head firmly, forcing the memory of his fallen friend out of it. It was a coward’s way out perhaps, but he had to be strong until the very end and thinking about Courfeyrac would not help achieve that goal.

Time passed. Enjolras slept on. Outside the sun crept further down towards the horizon, dipping below the abandoned shells of burned out buildings. The occasional Infected shambled past the hospital but none seemed interested in exploring its interior. One literally fell apart as it walked, chunks of flesh falling to expose muscles and tendons and the barest hint of bones. Combeferre looked away hurriedly.

Enjolras woke again after the sun had vanished completely, leaving them only the light of the moon to see by. Combeferre was by his side in an instant, reaching out automatically to take Enjolras’ pulse. It seemed to beat more strongly than before, though Combeferre could not tell if that was merely the product wishful thinking and bone-deep exhaustion on his part.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, the question leaving his lips out of habit more than anything.

He heard rather than saw Enjolras’ answering shrug. “I am still myself.” His voice was clear, albeit a ghost of its former self.

Combeferre squeezed his hand. “I am glad to hear it,” he said.

“And you?” Enjolras turned to look at Combeferre, moonlight illuminating his face enough that Combeferre could see the intensity of his gaze.

“I am well,” Combeferre assured him.

“Have you eaten?”

“I will.”

Enjolras took half a breath then released it, shaking his head. “I am in no position to tell you how to care for yourself, am I?” he asked. “Though it must be said that I never have been. I do not know how many times I would have perished without you to save me from myself.”

Combeferre laughed slightly. “It is a service I am glad to perform,” he assured Enjolras. “And I have received just as much from our friendship, as you know.”

“I know,” Enjolras said. “The day we met was a fortuitous day indeed.”

“You mean the day you nearly spilled wine all over my new waistcoat in your outrage over the monarchy’s excesses?” There was only fondness in Combeferre’s voice, though at the time he had been almost indignant about the incident.

A smile flicked across Enjolras’ lips. “The day you finished my thoughts anyway despite my near destruction of your clothes.”

“Someone had to keep up with you,” Combeferre said.

“I thank God every day that it was you.” Enjolras’ face turned serious once more. “You must save yourself, after.”

Combeferre flinched, though he did not let go of Enjolras’ hand or move away. “I will,” he said. Honesty made him add, “If I can.”

“I have confidence in you,” Enjolras assured him. His eyes were sliding closed despite his best efforts, the effort involved in fighting the Disease having sapped much of his strength and the lack of adequate food having taken the rest.

“Sleep,” Combeferre said. “We will talk more later.”

Enjolras nodded and allowed his eyes to shut. He did not relax, though his breathing slowed slightly. Combeferre stayed where he was, watching his friend sleep, moonlight still illuminating his face. “I am also glad that it was you,” he said quietly, and he did not think it was his imagination that created the slight smile on Enjolras’ lips in response.

*

Morning found them in the same position, Combeferre having fallen asleep where he sat. Enjolras woke first and gently disentangled his hand from Combeferre’s, more out of necessity than desire. Carefully he pulled up his shirt to check the progression of the Disease and stared, certain he was beginning to hallucinate. He could not remember if that was a usual symptom, not when his mind was dumb with hunger and Disease. Instinctively he reached out to wake Combeferre.

The darker haired man blinked awake, taking a moment to stare blearily at Enjolras before truly joining the world of the waking. He saw that Enjolras’ shirt was raised and turned his head to look. Like Enjolras, he stiffened, blinking rapidly as though he could not believe his eyes.

“Is it…” Enjolras began, trailing off to avoid having to give voice to such an impossibility.

“It seems to be,” Combeferre said. He gave a short laugh. “It would be you who would accomplish the impossible.” Both of them looked down at Enjolras’ injury, which had not only failed to worsen during the night but indeed seemed to have improved.

“How?” The word left Enjolras’ lips before he could quite make up his mind to speak.

Combeferre shook his head. “I have no idea,” he said, reaching out to pull Enjolras’ shirt down. “I am nearly inclined to call it an act of Providence, disinclined as I am to place my trust in such explanations.” His eyes wandered up to Enjolras’ face and then still higher, landing on the bread from the night before. His brow wrinkled in sudden thought and he rose, retrieving it with the oddest expression on his face.

“Enjolras,” he said, still staring at the bread. “Would you say that you consumed more bread or more mold when you ate yesterday?”

Enjolras blinked, casting his mind back ineffectually. “I… could not say,” he admitted at last.

Combeferre continued to frown. Then he shook his head. “Impossible. It must be more than that.”

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras asked, attempting to prop himself up on his elbows and failing. His injury screamed in indignation at this treatment and he bit down hard on his lip to keep from crying out. Combeferre, attuned to him even when preoccupied, sat hurriedly back down so that he was once more at eye-level with Enjolras.

“I had thought maybe… but no.”

“What?” Enjolras repeated, frowning. Combeferre was not often at a loss for words even under such extreme stress.

Combeferre sighed. “I had thought that perhaps there was some compound in the mold that counteracted the Disease,” he admitted. “But even as I thought it I realized the impossibility.”

Enjolras frowned. “Why is that such an impossibility?” he asked. “I know that I do not have your medical training, but why should there not be an agent that nullifies the Disease?”

“Infections do not work that way,” Combeferre said. “And it cannot possibly be that simple.”

“It cannot hurt to try,” Enjolras said. “How would you suggest we proceed?”

Combeferre began to object, then stopped. “I suppose you are right. At this stage it cannot possibly hurt.” He rose again. “I will take a sample of the mold and you will eat as much of this as you can,” he instructed. “I apologize for its unappetizing nature.”

Enjolras shrugged again. “It must be done,” he said philosophically, and reached for the bread. Combeferre carefully broke off a small piece that was almost entirely blue with mold and handed the rest to Enjolras.

“I will be back,” Combeferre promised. “But there is a partially functioning microscope left a few rooms down and I need to look at this.”

Enjolras nodded, wishing his friend did not have to leave but doing nothing to stop him. He turned his attention to the bread instead and began to eat, forcing it down grimly and hoping with all the strength he had once accorded to dreaming of better days that they were correct.

Combeferre returned several minutes later, face unreadable. At Enjolras’ questioning look he could only shrug. “The only way to know is to wait. If by some miracle we are not wrong I think I know how to recognize more.” He hesitated, then added, “though I see no reason why you should continue to eat it. I believe a compress on the wound may work in the same fashion and be easier to manage.”

Enjolras nodded again and Combeferre took his seat by Enjolras’ side. He looked truly exhausted, and Enjolras recognized in his face the look of a man who did not dare hope for fear of it being ripped from him. It reminded him of Grantaire and he frowned, not liking that expression on Combeferre. He licked his lips, pushed aside his weariness as best he could, and began to speak of what they would do if they had indeed found a way to counteract the Disease. Combeferre tensed away from the thought at first but he had never been able to resist being drawn into a discussion of how to create a better world and the dejection in his face was soon replaced by a tentative hope. It was enough.

Enjolras lost his battle against fatigue mid-sentence. Combeferre smiled down at him, heart so filled with fondness that he thought it might burst, though whether out of love or sadness he could not say. He rose, picking up his bayonet and walking soundlessly towards the door leading outside. He hated to leave Enjolras to sleep alone, but he was even less willing to leave his friend’s side when the other was awake and he had an errand to run. Against all his better judgment he had allowed Enjolras to fill him with budding hope, and as he searched for more food he kept a sharp eye out for patches of that distinctive blue mold.

*

When they next checked Enjolras’ injury the rot had once again failed to spread.

*

Days passed and it grew increasingly impossible to deny that the mold, for whatever miraculous reason, seemed to be winning its war against the Disease. Enjolras regained a small amount of strength, enough to stay awake for longer stretches of time, and some of the deathly pallor receded from his face. He and Combeferre subsisted on what little Combeferre could scavenge and the few rats he could catch, though they were forced to eat the latter raw and neither were certain whether the nourishment was really worth it. They were both dangerously close to starving, though neither mentioned that fact aloud. Instead they spoke of how to rebuild France and spread their discovery, and the sudden return of hope and a tangible future helped nearly as much as the cure itself.

When Enjolras had regained enough strength to stand up he expressed a desire to leave the hospital, at least briefly. Combeferre attempted to object, but Enjolras was determined and in the end Combeferre gave in as they had both known he would. They left before dawn so as to run into as few Infected as possible. Enjolras clung to Combeferre, frightened by his own weakness. Combeferre said nothing, supporting him and keeping his pace as slow as possible. It still took them nearly an hour and many pauses to rest to reach the walls of Paris.

Enjolras looked at Combeferre, who sighed. “Let it be said that I did not approve,” he said, and helped Enjolras climb up. Neither could quite have said how exactly they managed to find the strength to scale the wall, but climb it they did and sat side by side looking out at the desolated countryside beyond. They did not speak, shocked at the sight. France seemed to have withered completely upon being faced with the ravages of the Disease. Enjolras, face very white, reached out a trembling hand to grasp Combeferre’s, reassured by his friend’s warmth.

Slowly the sun crept higher in the sky, bathing both them and the open space before them in golden light. Enjolras’ hair, which had not been radiant in several weeks due first to dirt and later to illness, seemed to regain some of its glow. Below them a small animal scurried across the apparent wasteland, an abrupt reminder that not all life had ceased. The two friends continued to sit on the wall of their empty city, sunlight shining down on them, and Enjolras felt resolve grow in him once more. This was not the end, not by a long shot, no matter how things appeared. France would regain her glory, and this time he felt utterly certain that the people would do it their way. Combeferre looked out steadily, an odd expression on his face, and Enjolras knew that he shared this renewed conviction.

In the distance a lark began to sing, sweet song piercing the silence without fear. Enjolras smiled.

 

_fin_


End file.
